


and all the things we don’t talk about

by SharkEnthusiast



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Dead Ben Hargreeves, Eventually!, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gore, Hargreeves Children (Umbrella Academy) Need a Hug, Lesbian Vanya Hargreeves, Luther Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves Friendship, Pirates, Protective Allison Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sober Klaus Hargreeves, Stuttering Diego Hargreeves, The Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) Need a Hug, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28184571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkEnthusiast/pseuds/SharkEnthusiast
Summary: The Hargreeves grow up riding the back of the ocean. They learn to recite old French poetry from memory, to read the clouds and the waves and the wind, to get bloodstains out of wood and the knees of their best trousers. When they each leave, one by one, it is no surprise.Reginald Hargreeves dies alone on March 23rd in his estate. He is clutching a map and a glass of his finest rum. His children return, 1-7, all in a row.They do not mourn his passing.A pirate au of sorts.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Grace Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves/Eudora Patch, Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz, Number Five | The Boy & Ben Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves, Raymond Chestnut/Allison Hargreeves, Sissy Cooper/Vanya Hargreeves
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap guys.  
> I’m very excited to share this, even if it is wholly inaccurate. I know little to nothing about the time period I’m writing in, and did not nearly enough research.  
> Oops. Basically yeah, yolo.

1.

Luther is 5 years old, and the wind is dark and cold. The window pane is broken, and it whistles through, sharp and piercing. Luther shivers, his face wet with tears. He is holding a wooden bird toy painted blue, and his breath is visible in the air. 

It is quiet and still. His mother isn’t wailing any longer, and his father shouts have stopped, too. Luther is alone in a big house and it no longer feels like his own. 

He is hiding. He likes to hide, wedged in between the pantry and the wall, tucked into the toy chest, pressed into the floorboards of the closet. This is a new spot- up in the attic curled behind the curtain. 

There had been something in the house with stompy shoes and Luther's mother, hair astray and frazzled, had put him here, kissed the top of his head, and told him to be quiet. 

And he has been. He does not know for how long, but his legs have cramped and fallen asleep, mouth grown dry and stomach empty. He is cold- his body shakes and fingers are numb. 

In the absence of noise in the house, the sound of footsteps downstairs and in the hall is easy to hear. Luther holds himself very still because still means quiet and he is afraid that the person his parents had hidden him from is back. The footsteps get louder, closer. They meander from the hall to the kitchen then to his parents bedroom, and then back towards the attic stairs. Luther begins to cry again. He misses his mother and father. He does not know why they have left him, where they have gone, but he knows the footsteps beneath him to not belong to them. 

The stairs begin to creak.

Luther does not move. 

The door begins to open. He does not twitch a muscle, doesn’t even breathe. 

He hurts, his lungs and his legs and arms and heart, and his mother had said he was brave but he doesn’t feel it, and his father hadn’t told him what was wrong until the last second, and his teeth want to chatter but he doesn’t let them and-

The curtain is pulled away. There is a man in front of Luther, but not the one from before, because his shoes are not nearly stompy enough. They are fancy- nice leather that only the rich wear, and when Luther examines what he can see of the cane the man is wielding, the wood shines almost golden. 

He looks up. The man is old, far older than Luther’s parents. He figures that being still and quiet won’t help him any longer, so he stumbles to a stand. 

“Hello?” He tries. He feels scrutinized, so he shoves the bluebird back into his pocket. The man kneels down, looks him in the eye. 

“Interesting,” he mutters, and Luther blinks. 

“Where are my parents?” He asks, earnest. He doesn’t know if he should be scared of this man or not. 

“Dead,” the man says, rises back to standing. Luther's lips begin to tremble, nose run, and he wonders how a man as good as his father and a woman as kind as his mother can be dead at all. His aunt Mary died a year ago, but she was older and frailer, and so it made sense. 

“None of that,” the man says, hauling Luther along with him towards the stairs. 

His parents are dead and there’s a strange man in the house. 

“Hurry up, Number One. There is no time for such poor behavior.” 

“Number One?” He tries to pry his arm away, but the man's grip only tightens. 

“Your name.” 

“But I already have one. It’s Luther-” he is cut off. 

“Incorrect, Number One. I have no use for who you are now, name included, only for who you’ll become.”

“Who will I become?” 

They have left the house, and Luther looks behind him at it’s green shutters. 

“Quiet, boy.” He is cuffed across the back of the head. “We have a boat to catch.”

Things are different after that. One is only the first to be collected (rescued, saved). Reginald Hargreeves travels far and wide for the 7 of them for the better part of a year, but by the end of it, they’re all aboard his ship- cleaning it in the day and training in the night. They are given tutors and a cook, and One learns to read and write and stab a man in 100 different places. 

They are all orphans, One thinks. For the 2 weeks that it was only him and Two, all Two would do was cry and cry and cry until One would sit him in his lap, even though they’re only a year apart. 

They don’t all speak the same, not yet. Tongues do not form the same way, vowels don’t match. Hargreeves says it will come with time, just like most of the things they are taught. Will come when One can pin Two to the deck, even if he squirms, when he can read Hargreeves’ watch and the sky and the stars and sails and waves. Will come when he can beat Five in a fight, when the ocean no longer scares him, even though it is wide and vast and deep. 

It does come, and they begin to grow up. 4 months after One turns 8, he learns what he was training for- what warented the little sleep and knives and swords. 

It is a cold morning when the sea feels hungry and the fog rolls in like a blanket. When One dangles his feet over the edge and imagines drowning, to be consumed. 

He belongs here, with his siblings. Now that they can all understand each other, they fit- slotted together like a puzzle. 

And Reginald Hargreeves is good to them, with all the food and pretty weapons. It might not be the soft touch of fingers in his hair, kisses on top of his head, but it is enough. 

It is a good life. 

There is a ship on the horizon. One cannot recall that happening before. 

“Look!” Three says from beside him. They are sitting next to each other, legs stuck through the railing on the starboard side. She is the same age as he is, and the nicest one beside maybe Six. She likes him, and One likes her because she has a pretty smile and sits across from him at every meal. 

Sir Hargreeves hums, looks up from his log, and brings his telescope to his eye. 

“Very good, Number Three.” He clears his throat, stands up. It is a Saturday, and they are spending their 30 minutes of free time scattered around the deck. Hargreeves claps once, and One can hear Four groan from his vantage point tangled up in the rigging. 

“Children,” he starts. “I am going to give you some very important instructions. Number Five, fetch me my sword. Number Four and Six, the weapons chest. Two and Three, ready the cannons. Number One- with me.” One tries very hard not to smile. It has been a while since Hargreeves has singled him out like this, and it fills his sternum with something light and golden. One runs to join the captain by the bow. 

“Those men apon that boat will board the ship,” Hargreeves says. “From the starboard, I believe. You and your siblings must stop them from doing so.” 

“How, sir?” One has not yet quite grown out of his curiosity. 

Hargreeves does not hesitate. Five is back with his sword and he hands it to him. 

“Kill them. You have been preparing to do so, I do not believe it will be an issue.” 

It is silent for a long, long time. One remembers the large boots and his fathers yelling. He remembers his old name, the one he should have forgotten, and wonders if his parents throats were slit or hearts stabbed. 

The ship on the horizon is closer. 

One has never actually killed someone before. 

Four and Six return with the weapons chest. Two and Three have gone below to the cannons, and One can hear them arguing on what job each of them should fill. 

Reginald Hargreeves is a good man. He saved them from strange men and burning buildings, mothers and sickness and pain. 

One looks back up at him, straightens his back. Hargreeves would not ask this of him if it was unnecessary. He nods, sharply. Brings his hand to his forehead in a salute. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Hargreeves smiles, then ruffles his hair. 

“Very good, Number One. Grab a cutlass from the chest. I want you ready.” 

The ship is even closer. Luther can make out the symbol on its flags. 

He doesn’t hesitate any longer. He is Number One, the first collected, and he is the bravest of them all and his fathers favorite. 

He is ready. 

  
  


Reginald Hargreeves dies alone on March 23rd in his estate. He is clutching a map and a glass of his finest run. His children return, 1-7, all in a row. 

They do not mourn his passing.


	2. Two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Number Two Hargreeves is often angry. He is verbal about it, the words traded to Number Six about his hate for oatmeal, cloudy mornings, their father, and shoes. His anger is not something pushed down and left idle.   
> It is his love, however, that goes unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hargreeves siblings, from oldest to youngest.   
> 1\. Five  
> 2\. Klaus  
> 3\. Ben  
> 4\. Allison  
> 5\. Luther  
> 6\. Diego  
> 7\. Vanya

2.

Number Two Hargreeves is often angry. He is verbal about it, the words traded to Number Six about his hate for oatmeal, cloudy mornings, their father, and shoes. His anger is not something pushed down and left idle. 

It is his love, however, that goes unsaid. 

He loves his siblings, knives, and Grace. He loves warm mornings, where the wind ruffles his hair and sends it askew, where the ocean is mild and playful, the waves and the sand and the salt. 

He loves the sea. When the ship is anchored just off the shore of another place Hargreeves will not let him, he throws himself into the water and dives deep enough for the fish to swarm around him like bees, and when he returns, Grace, the cook gives him a hot meal and a kiss on the head. 

His siblings don’t get it. One is scared of the water, anyway, and whenever Two returns soaked he grimaces and shivers, eyes him like he wants to say something but won’t. His siblings don’t get much about him, anyway, his anger and coldness. 

Two doesn’t get much about the things around him, but he knows himself. He knows that when his words get all tangled and jumbled and stuck it makes him angry, that moments snatched after training- muscles all achy and tired- feel good, that how painfully  _ young _ he is to all of his siblings feels like a blow to the gut. He knows that he hates the scent of smoke, that sometimes, when it’s dark and dank and all too still, Two swears that he can smell it and thinks that everything is burning all over again. 

He knows he used to have a name. He knows his mother used to sing him to bed every night. He knows that he has forgotten both. 

So he trains. He knows it is stupid to want things he can’t have, so he applies himself in ways that are useful. He gains criticisms easier than breathing, and so he trains harder, knuckles split, joints aching. His siblings don’t notice. They never do, because Two is small and the second youngest, foolish and careless and clingy. They don’t notice his growing old, the hardened shape of his jaw. 

He perfects his knife throwing, rolls, kicks, punches. He perfects the glint in his eye, the flinty smile, the way to get through a sentence without stumbling. He learns the right places to stab in order to kill, the way to look dangerous, the way to get the attention that he wants. 

“I am a death omen,” he says to himself at night, knife palmed in his hand, poised to throw at the target above his bed. “I am dark and wild.” His siblings don’t notice. They never do. 

He has killed and injured and bled. 

He is not so young anymore. 

Sometimes, Two is jolted from sleep by a memory given to him in the form of a dream. Fingers in his hair, a language he no longer understands, his mother screaming as fire consumes her. 

Six calls them nightmares, because Two always emerges from them crying. Tells him that he has them too, that he hates them. Four kisses him on the top of his head, coddles him, treating him like he’s fragile, and Three always snorts and tells Two that he better get over them soon or else Hargreeves will start to notice. She’s right. 

They don’t stop. They start to haunt him even during the day, snatches of a voice, the ghost of a person. A name. He almost feels triumphant at the knowledge, the reminder that he was stolen. A reminder of what burned in the fire he was pulled from. 

Two repeats the name to himself so he doesn’t forget, a mantra. He does not remember who it belonged to. He was only 4, and memories are fleeting when not reminded of them. 

“Inés,” he whispers into the down of his mattress. 

“Inés,” he tells the wind in the crows nest, carving it into the wood. 

“Inés,” he lends it to the ocean. 

“Inés,” he gives it to his best knife, the one who always does the job. 

Inés, Inés, Inés. 

He wonders if it is his own. 

Two watches as Five is dragged from the deck of the ship and onto another by a man twice his age whose feet are bare and cutlas sharp. Fives teeth are bared, his eyes as scared as they’ve ever been, so Two rips a knife from the abdomen of the corpse beneath him, throws it towards them, imagining it sinking into the man's head. 

He misses. He never misses. 

And just like that, Five is gone. Hargreeves pays it no mind, simply berates Two for his inability to stop it, then returns to his quarters. Seven joins them on the deck, and her mouth is wobbling.

“He’s just gone?” they ask, forehead scrunched. Five was the only one who ever cared about her anyway, and he used to visit her room at night to sit on her bed and talk. 

Two has never even been to that side of the hall, and Five always would roll his eyes at him when the words get stuck. And it’s not  _ fair _ that Seven got his love, his affection, not fair that now he’s gone. 

Number Two is bitter and cruel, a blade sharpened down to a point. He is double edged, and there are no ways to hold him where people won’t get cut. He is a death omen. He is dark and wild. He is so, so  _ angry _ at this  _ child _ in front of him, who gets all the benefits of the Umbrella Academy without any of the blood. 

“Yes,” he growls, not breaking eye contact. “Gave himself up. Figure he got tired of it here, decided he’d rather live without us.” 

Seven is crying. He is not sorry. 

“Two!” Three snaps, cuffs him over the head. He laughs then, long and low, pivots on his heel to leave. Six’s face is crumpled into one of regret and concern. “You have blood all over your face,” she continues. He checks his reflection in the windows of his fathers office. 

She is right. He does. 

Two dreams that he’s burning. That fire is consuming the deck of the ship, the rigging set aflame. Then he dreams that he was the fire all along, that his siblings are screaming for him to stop, but he can’t. When he wakes, his room is too hot, too stifling and suffocating and smelling of smoke. The ceiling feels close, like it’s caving in, and the silence that surrounds him feels like it might swallow him whole. He cannot breathe. He wonders why he gets like this, what is wrong with him to have turned out this way. 

It is too hot. Too  _ quiet _ , and so Two launches himself from his bed, up the steps and onto the deck, breath still ragged. He feels as if his skin is coming off in pieces, misplaced. 

“Inés,” he whispers, but it does not bring him much comfort. 

He cannot breathe, so he launches himself off of the port side, legs flailing as he falls.

The ocean is better in the night. Deeper. Everything feels less tangible here, surrounded by black. He imagines what it would be like to disappear into this, to drown. He wonders what it would be like to not need to breathe. 

He climbs up the side of the ship, wet and shaking from the cold. He does not cry. 

He does not feel as if he’s burning any longer. 

  
  


Two is the first to arrive at his fathers funeral. He no longer goes by his number.

Beside him is his wife, Eudora Patch, face stern. They marvel at the estate his father has bought together, take a quick walk in the gardens behind the home before returning to the front door.

It has been 11 years. 

“Diego,” Eudora whispers, looking uncomfortable in her nicest clothes. He does not want to knock, so he tries the door himself, relieved to find it unlocked. 

They wander the halls together. It is strange how it is so close to the ship and so apart, how the windows overlook a garden instead of the sea. In the darkest hallway, Eudora slips her hand into his, and it feels like an anchor, it always has. He does not let go, even if it is dangerous, playing at being alone. 

The house is a ghost. Diego does not recognize his father in it until they reach the courtyard. Number One is there, digging a grave, and Diego wishes he hadn’t come. 

Eudora lets go of his hand, excuses herself to the gardens. Diego opens the doors, and when One looks up, Diego realizes that he doesn’t think things have changed at all. 

“Two,” One says, setting the shovel onto the ground. There is a mound next to him wrapped in a sheet, and Diego nearly smiles. 

“Is that him?” he asks, gesturing vaguely toward it. One nods, grim, and Diego wants to laugh, to remove the knife from his left boot and kill Hargreeves all over again. 

He does not want to remember the sway of the ship, the desire to be more. He does not want to remember the way he had killed, the blood on his hands. He does not want to forget what he is now, his wife Eudora and daughter Inés. 

He leaves One to his digging, fetches Eudora from the garden so that she can keep him company in the parlor. He does not want to stay, but there are things he needs to set right. 

Four had left before him, escaped onto the shore of an island. Diego has not seen him in years and years and years. 

The ceilings are big and grand but still feel a little stifling. Eudora holds his hand again, and he pictures them at home instead of here, pressing kisses into her lips and forehead and cheeks. 

“I love you,” he tells her. She smiles. It is the truth. He is no longer a death omen, dark and wild. 

He is hers, and he loves her. 

He is not as angry anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, the 4 sexiest things in existence: knives, the ocean, fire, and extreme childhood trauma!
> 
> okay so uh???? basically diego is a bratty younger sibling who wants to be ✨cool✨ , has trauma from witnessing his family die in a fire, and glorifies death because it thinks it amounts to the level of his worth :)
> 
> Happy new year! I hope it's a good one, but i'm not gonna expect too much.   
> Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is mortal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't entirely know what this is, but just know it's the child of a lot of late nights and procrastination




It is Three’s 9th birthday when they raid a ship called  _ The Knife’s Edge _ just south of Port Royal and a sweaty man rips her left eye out with his hand. She collapses to the deck, Five above her, sword sticking out of the man, shaky. There is a scream building in the back of her throat, afraid and desperate, but she does not let it out. 

It does not feel like a loss. It feels like punishment. It feels like  _ vengeance _ , tangible proof of her father’s warnings. 

Three is better at her job after that. She does not complain about the void that lives in the place where her eye should be, just drowns herself in blood and glory and storms. 

One is no longer Hargreeve’s favorite. Three is, because she is cunning and sly, his best tool, pretty princess sitting on a throne of bones. She will inherit his boat and his enemies when she is old enough, the secrets buried underneath the floorboards. 

She does not hesitate any longer, stays up late training with Two well into the night. He tells her that she’s ruthless and that there is something restless and squirming inside of her, a force.

“Fire,” he drawls, because everything is fire with Two. He sends a knife spiraling towards her head, and she dodges, easy. 

“A storm,” she shoots back, lunges towards him. 

A storm. All-encompassing, something lethal. She smiles, lips bloody from a blow to the mouth. 

_ Ruthless _ . Three likes the way that sounds, and so she forges herself anew. She does not waste her time on things like tears and grief. She works on new ways to fight with the blindspots and reads about the famed. She pulls pages from Mary Read and Anne Bonney’s books, teaches herself to be something  _ more _ , something better, a double-edged sword. 

This is the best model of herself there is. 

She is 11 when it all falls apart. Five is yanked from the deck of their ship and onto another, and it almost seems as if he had gone willingly. Two’s words worm her way into her head, and she forgets the mask, holds onto Seven as she cries. She does not feel ruthless like this, human parts laid bare. 

“Who’s next, then?” Four says head cocked, feet bare and coated with red. He laughs, face contorted and twisted into a smile. “Five, Four, Three…” 

“Shut up,” Three snaps, even though she knows he doesn’t mean to be cruel. She lets go of Seven, paces a couple of steps away. When she turns back towards her siblings, she cannot help but notice how young they are. 

She feels a millennia older, wearing and ancient. 

That night, she leans over the edge of the railing and is sick. The hole inside her seems to be growing, rotting, and Three’s fingers shake at the thought of her body destroying itself from the inside out, dissolving into dirt and death. She does not know the last time she cried, but she does then, aware of the hollowness of her lungs and pounding of her heart. 

She feels mortal, and it is not a welcome thing. Somedays, when she was younger, she’d remember the arms around her, the fist on her face, the throbbing pain, and something being yanked from her. She had not forgotten what it meant yet, had not allowed her father to corrupt it into one of his lessons. 

The Umbrella Academy are thieves. They are all well versed in it, swiping things from pockets of civilians when they reach shore. They can do it all with their hands tied, eyes closed, mouth gagged, and they have all been stolen from themselves. 

She is mortal. She does not like knowing this. 

The Umbrella Academy are fighters. Three does not remember the first time she killed someone, just that it was as unmemorable as it was gory. None of them waste emotion on it anymore, because that is what's punished, what Three learned when she became less whole.

Five is gone. Stolen, without a fight. Three is not hopeless enough to believe him to be breathing. 

The ship they live on is unnamed. The wood floors are straight and uniform, not water warped or dented, varnish making them shine. Her father has made an empire on what they do now, and the ship is proof of it. Three has never understood why Hargreeves would spend all of his money and time and work on something if it will just be forgotten without a label. Three knows the importance of names. She is scared she will be forgotten without one, too. 

Three does not return to her room that night. She instead makes her way across the hall to One’s, knocks lightly on the door, mouth pulled into a smile to hide her messiness. 

She is mortal. She does not want to be forgotten. 

One answers quickly. 

“Three?” he says. He looks messy too, hair astray and eyes red. Their father would punish him. 

His room is the same as hers, a mirror. She sits in the chair beside his bed, and he sits across from her, unwavering. He is afraid. Three has always been good at seeing things like that. 

“Is every alright?” One asks, eyebrows wrinkled. He is a liar, they all are. Three gets up from the chair and sits beside him on his bed. Reaches up to the nape of her neck to unclip the necklace that dangles from it. It is small, dainty. Three’s father gave it to her before she was Three. 

“I want to tell you a secret.” She traces the letters on the front of the locket, then presses it into his palm, shuts his fingers around it. One looks surprised, examines it. His face shifts into something unfamiliar. 

“ _ Allison _ ,” she whispers into his ear. Giving a part of her to him feels less like a loss and more like a gain. 

She leaves him then, clutching her locket like a lifeline. She swears she can taste blood.

She is mortal, but she will not be forgotten. 

Three does not sleep at all that night. 

  
  


She does end up inheriting the ship. When One moves with their father to his newly built estate paid for by Spanish gold, she is the one who stays. Her other siblings are long gone, snuck into the night in succession the year before, forgotten or dead. 

But Number Three Hargreeves is not forgotten. She builds her own crew, hungry women and men that are just quiet enough to kill and not question. She wears her eyepatch like a badge and becomes infamous, a cautionary tale to children who live by the coast. 

They call her names, silly enough to make her laugh. The Bloody Terror. The Mad Maiden. Her crew calls her Lucky because she is always escaping death or capture or something new altogether, but Ray calls her Allison and Claire calls her Mother. 

She met him in New York when she was taking a break from it all, buying gowns and hats and the newest fashion with her newly acquired money. It was dangerous on land for her, dangerous for him, too, and so when she’d ask him to join her on her ship it hadn’t been much of a question. 

When they make love, Ray tells her that she is beautiful. When she lets him remove her eyepatch he flinches, but still trails his fingers over the hole and asks her if it hurt. 

Allison smiles and tells him it had, but not as much as everything else. He asks about her siblings and she tells him, does not omit any of the details. It scares him a little, she can tell. Makes him angry. But he does not leave her, not even when the storms come along with a baby. 

She is the one who sends him away in the end, and it is not because she no longer loves him. She doesn’t want to end up being her father, raising a child in the moments stolen and sandwiched between chaos. She knows that Claire will end up not knowing her, but she tells herself that it’s okay and kisses them both on top of the head. 

“Allison,” Ray says, and it is painful. He kisses her this time, on the mouth and slowly. She loves him. “I won’t forget.”

Three does not visit for a long time. When the ship burns and she gets word of her father's death, she tracks them down back to New York, arms overflowing with presents. It is not enough to close the divide, and the night after she arrives she looks over at Ray in the bed beside her and runs without a second thought. 

Three watches One bury their father. When he says her name like it’s a foreign word, tongue clumsy over the consonants, she draws a knife and threatens to slit his throat. 

She wonders if Ray tells people that he loved her. Wonders if she becomes some sort of myth to him, a teenage rebellion. A wild phase and momentary lapse of insanity, a story to tell their daughter before bed. 

She pictures his mouth saying it, not clumsy at all, sure and warm and sweet. 

_ Allison _ . 

In the end, she’s the one that forgets him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably pretty out of character, but I am unbelievably proud of it. I know that comic diego was the one missing his left eye however, I wanted to give this to allison for no other reason than I thought it would be cool. I wanted to in some way dabble with dr. terminal and loss of an arm, but I was worried about how that would affect her fighting, so this is what you get instead.   
> leave a comment if you enjoyed!!

**Author's Note:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!  
> Hey! I got a tumblr!! Check me out [here!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hidebeneaththesea)


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